Plague Sausage
by IamSlytherclaw
Summary: Just a light-hearted canon-era oneshot. Joly eats a bad sausage. Yeah, it's stupid, but funny. Immature humor. We all need some laughs on Barricade Day, right?


Simply put, the Café Musain did not have the best food. Satisfying, yes. Inexpensive, yes. But healthy, certainly not. The group known as Les Amis de L'ABC knew this. It was still as good a place for a budding revolution as any. But the food was to be avoided as much as humanly possible. They, however, had to learn the hard way.

It was early in the revolution. Plans were vague. The only certainty was that their cause was just and this revolution could not fail. Any other details were still a bit up in the air. Enjolras tried his best to juggle all his tasks, but he would recruit first, hammer out details later when there were more members. He was starting a republic, after all. It was Democracy, not procrastination, or at least that's what he told Grantaire, his earliest cohort. The idea to overthrow the whole government started as one of his friend's infamous drunk ramblings. Enjolras brooded on it, as was his custom, and thus a revolution was born. Grantaire went along more out of amusement than conviction.

The newest recruit, a student called Combeferre, suggested the café. He praised the virtue of its simplicity. Such an average place would not draw attention. Bored students congregated at pubs and cafés like this often. It would be perfect. Enjolras appreciated with the quick thinking. Grantaire liked the vast wine collection. Combeferre was happy to be heard. It seemed an ideal compromise.

However, one thing was lacking - any semblance of decent food. They weren't aristocrats, but they were still unused to meats of such questionable origin. "Genuine Pig", the sign had boasted. Not very promising. Maybe they could just - ahem- eat before they came to the meetings.

Sadly, it was young hypochondriac Joly who, after forgetting to eat because of his insane self-given workload, tried the sausage. It was genuine pig, how bad could it be? It's not like it was a horse kidney or a cat liver or anything. Right?

Joly hated sickness. He distanced himself from anyone who sniffled slightly. He went berserk when anyone coughed. His self-diagnoses was much worse. If he sniffled slightly, he had caught the Plague. THE Plague. For the people of Paris, he would go through fire. But not rain. He could get a cold. And then pneumonia. And then he would die. He hated sickness.

He felt its ill effects about halfway through the meeting. A slightly - bloated feeling. He knew this symptom. He had caught the Plague. He must warn everyone away from this non-pig plague sausage.

"ATENTION, MY FRIENDS! IN MY LAST DAYS ON THIS PLANET, I MUST WARN YOU OF AN EMMINENT DANGER! DO NOT EAT ANYTHING HERE! IT SHALL RESULT IN YOUR DEATHS AS IT SHALL RESULT IN MINE! WORSE YET, IT IS ONE OF THE MOST PAINFUL DEATHS I KNOW OF! GET AWAY WHILE YOU STILL CAN!"

Grantaire, in a bout of drunken idiocy, immediately ate said "plague sausage". Tell a college boy not to do something, and they will at once. Woe to the human race, for these young "men", for lack of a better word, are the future. Maybe the women can save their sorry skins. But I digress.

Grantaire suddenly grabbed Joly's mystery meat sausage. "If I die, none of you get any of my stuff!" He swallowed it all at once. "Now you have to go, mon ami!"

Enjolras was not one too back down from a challenge. He ate his equally quickly with a cry of "Vive La France!", making it sound more like "Oh, what the hell".

Combferre only ate a bite of sausage. "If you two die, you'll need someone to keep an eye on you in whatever afterlife there may be."

They then dispersed. Enjolras's momentum had been slowed by Joly's proclamation.

The next day at the meeting, Joly looked rather off-color. That was no concern. He often worked or even more often worried himself to sickness. However, Enjolras and Grantaire also looked far from healthy.

"Perhaps we should - oh dear- listen to Joly next time." He had made an odd noise after the "should".

"Perhaps. I - Oh Mon Dieu what is that foul smell" Grantaire's face contorted in disgust.

"I TOLD YOU! IT'S THE PLAGUE," Joly exclaimed triumphantly.

"No, Joly! It's just some gas! I shall be fine!"

"Enjolras, we know you. You could be shot eight times and still say 'I'm fine'. Forgive me if I don't believe you," Combeferre sarcastically interjected.

"Enjy, Mon ami, that does not smell like regular gas. Go ask the chef what non-pig ingredients have done this to you."

"I WILL NOT ACCOST SOME POOR KITCHEN GIRL ABOUT MY GAS!"

"YOU WANT HER TO BE ACCOSTED BY SOMEONE LESS FORGIVING TO THE LOWER CLASSES WHEN THIS INEVITABLY HAPPENS AGAIN!? GO ASK HER BEFORE SOMEONE WORSE DOES! FIX IT BEFORE IT GETS OUT OF HAND!" Combeferre seldom raised his voice, so they knew this was serious. However, the Guide of the revolutionary band was only escalating the situation to make Enjolras actually do something about it. Despite his frightful appearance when speaking to crowds at his famous rallies, he wasn't very good one-on-one.

"Okay. But only for her sake, not mine."

Enjolras reluctantly went to the kitchen. The girl was sitting over a pot of stew for the later dinner rush.

"Excuse me, miss, but do you make the sausage?"

"Oui, monsieur. Is...is there a problem?" She started trembling from fear. Customers with complaints were often drunk and violent.

"Oh please, mademoiselle, do not fear me. I mean no harm. I am simply curious. Was the sausage yesterday entirely 'genuine pig'? I feel, unwell, I suppose."

"Oh Monsieur, please do not tell the mistress! I didn't mean nothing by it! These are hard times, and I could not find enough pork. I supplemented with beans. Far more than what was appropriate. Please forgive me," the young girl wailed.

"Um, please- don't cry- um- there there." Enjolras patted her back awkwardly. The Marble Lover of Liberty was unused to emotions, to say the least. The only emotion he felt on a regular basis was passionate love for his Patria. He knew not how to comfort an upset kitchen girl.

Enjolras left quietly, instructed the owner not to hurt the poor girl, and returned to his friends. The room smelled absolutely repulsive.

"Hey, it's Enjy! You're a real trendsetter, you know? We're all copying you," Grantaire drunkenly slurred.

"So, did they use rats? Flea? Plague victims?!" Joly looked almost green.

"Worry not, my friends. The problem is just what I first said. The kitchen girl could not find much pork, so she instead added a few beans. Joly, you must know how those fibrous little beasts can interfere with natural workings."

"THAT'S IT! I KNEW IT FROM THE START! BEANS! NATURE'S PLAGUE!"

Combeferre, the group's voice of reason calmly added, "Isn't plague nature's plague?"

"YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!"

"Do I," Grantaire deadpanned.

From that day forth, no one ate the sausage. Maybe they ordered some food to help out the business. But they knew better than to eat it. No one spoke of the gaseous incident.

Well, no one but Grantaire when he was drunk. Which is to say, Grantaire always at any time to any new member. One Monsieur Pontmercy had the best reaction, he thought. The bourgeois boy became quite red in the face and stammered stuttered for a few minutes. Eponine, the poor girl who trailed after him like a shadow, giggled at that. Enjolras noticed the gamin looked rather pretty when she laughed. Either Marius had the best reaction, or that little Gavroche, Courfeyrac's friend. He fell out of his chair, literally rolling around on the floor like a pig in mud for longer than was necessary

Yes, the Café Musain had many things. Plague sausage just happened to be one of them.

 **A/N - Thank you for reading my stupid little story! Please review, of couse. If you enjoy this, keep an eye out for my newest story, a full length Les Mis modern AU! It should be pretty fun, I hope. I'll probably post the intro chapter next week. Thanks again, and Happy Barricade Day!**


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